Reclamation
by r4ven3
Summary: This 4-chapter story provides an epilogue to the 3 stories I have written featuring Jane Townsend. It begins immediately after 10.6 ends. When this story opens Harry and Ruth have been married for a few months.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: This story, briefly featuring Jane Townsend, is set a few months (weeks?) after the ending of "When Women Talk". It provides yet another alternative ending to 10.6. It's not really a Jane story, although she makes a brief appearance.**_

* * *

He has been told that Ruth's body is on a gurney in the room beyond that door. "It is you who must identify her, Harry," the Home Secretary had said, his voice quiet and measured out of respect to a marriage which had ended with a bullet to Ruth's chest.

"Why can't you do it?" Harry had said into the phone, not wanting to be disturbed from his racking grief, the hollow place he has found where the pain of Ruth's passing barely touches him, where his memory of her is of her lively and warm and loving him. He doesn't want to feel anything. Were he to, he would surely break apart.

"They've asked for a family member, and as her husband, you're about as close as it gets."

Harry had wondered about the mysterious `they'. They say; they want; they have asked; they are pleased, displeased, disappointed. Well, _they_ can fuck right off.

He doesn't know how long he has to wait before he can identify Ruth's body, so he sits and waits, emptying his mind, hoping to find a place inside it where the memories don't gnaw at him like so many rats, their sharp teeth bringing maximum pain. He'd only just hung up from talking to Towers when his front doorbell had rung. He hadn't felt up to having visitors, but the ringing had been persistent, and he thought he heard a female voice calling his name.

"Catherine gave me a key, just in case you wouldn't let me in," his visitor had said, standing in the doorway to his living room, having let herself in. For once her expression is serious, with no sign of a twinkle or a raised eyebrow, her hands held unmoving by her side. "You look awful, Harry." He'd looked away from her then, embarrassed to be seen unshaven and unkempt.

"I don't remember inviting you into my house."

"Well, someone needs to check on you ….. to ensure you haven't ….."

"Taken my life? I couldn't possibly do that. It would be disrespectful to her memory."

"She was my friend, too, Harry. I'm going to miss her dreadfully."

Harry had sighed then, his body heavy with loss. "Well, don't stand in the doorway. You may as well come in."

She had quietly entered the room, sitting primly on the sofa, hands folded in her lap, keeping her distance from him, while trying to find the right words to say to this man whose moods had always bewildered and frustrated her. Why couldn't he just …. _deal_ with things quickly …. like everyone else? "Catherine was the one to tell me. Phillip and I are …. distraught. Catherine said you sounded …. beside yourself."

"I didn't know who else to ring. I just needed to ….. talk to someone."

"You could have called me. I could have come here to be with you. I'm not completely useless."

Harry had smiled then. The thought of his first wife offering him comfort during his time of grief over the death of his second wife had him experiencing amusement rather than irritation. "You are possibly the last person I expected to be visiting me."

"I do have a heart, you know."

Harry had smiled again, wondering whether two genuine smiles less than 20 hours after the death of his beloved Ruth was _de rigueur_. He knew Ruth herself would not mind. She would want him to pull himself together and live. They had even talked about it – the possibility of one of them being left alone after the sudden death of the other. "In the unlikely event of me dying before you, Harry, I want you to put on a brave face and carry on. I want you to live, love, and always remember me with fondness."

It had only been a month or so ago that they had had this conversation, and his reply had been, "I'm not sure I'd be able to do that, Ruth. I think to lose you might be the one thing which would unravel me completely." And true to his prediction, it appears to be that way.

"I have to go to the hospital," he says, trying to remain calm in the presence of Jane. She was seeing him at his worst – again – not that he'd wanted to impress her, certainly not any time during the last 20 years. "They need me to identify her body."

"You haven't done that yet?"

"I …. I just couldn't. When they took her to the hospital, I came back here."

"And wallowed. You wallow very successfully, Harry. You always did."

Harry suppressed the words, `Fuck off, Jane', just in time for her to offer to accompany him to the hospital.

So here he sits, on a molded plastic chair designed for people half his size, outside the room where Ruth's body lies. On the chair-but-one from him primly sits his first wife, her clothing understated, just like her expression. "Do you want me to accompany you into the room?" she asks at last.

"Thank you, no. I need to …... be alone with her …. one last time."

"She was a wonderful woman, Harry. I just wish you'd had more time together. She made you a nicer person …. and for the first time since they were born, you became a real father to your children."

He knows Jane had meant that as a compliment, and he smiles again, not looking at her. Three smiles in one morning; he suspects that's around three too many. Still, he's almost certain Ruth would approve.

"Sir Harry?"

Harry looks up to see the mortuary assistant. He's sure this man is the very same one who had showed him the fake Ruth's body just before she'd had to go into exile. That was over five years ago, so he could be mistaken. The man leads him into the room – all pale grey walls with chrome fittings, the sheet over Ruth's still body pure white and crisp.

"Are you ready?" the man says, and Harry nods, stepping closer so that had he wanted to he could reach out and touch the body beneath the sheet.

While the mortuary assistant raises the sheet from Ruth's head, Harry's eyes are taking in the shape of her body beneath the sheet. Something is not quite right. Ruth's body is voluptuous. He should know. He had worshipped her body with every part of his, but especially with his eyes and his hands. He hasn't yet touched this body, but his eyes tell him that the shape of this body is not quite the same shape as Ruth's. Then very slowly he allows his eyes to travel towards her head, where he sees a brunette, with a rounded face, small nose, and …...

_It's not Ruth_.

Harry quickly breathes in. Does this mean what he thinks it means? And what had been Towers' words to him? "Harry, you have to be the one to identify Ruth's body. You have to. I know it's just procedure, but it has to be you." Harry hadn't wanted to, but here he is, and suddenly he knows why.

A sob escapes him, and he covers his mouth with his hand, hoping that he won't break down completely. Perhaps the mortuary assistant believes him to be grief stricken. Only he knows how much he is holding in – a volcano of joy, relief and gratitude.

"Yes, that's my wife," he says, his voice almost failing on the word `wife'. "That's Ruth Evershed."

Seeing that Harry wishes no further time with the body, the mortuary assistant covers the face of the dead woman, as Harry turns to leave the room. Throughout the years Dion Walters has seen a lot of odd reactions to death. He knows that Sir Harry Pearce is a spy, and they are a breed all on their own. Cold bastards, the lot of them. He didn't even kiss her goodbye.

By the time Harry again reaches Jane's side, he has managed to adopt an aura of calm.

"I need to make a phone call. You can leave me here. I don't require a ….."

"An ex-wife?"

"I can't do anything about the ex-wife part. I'll be fine now, thank you. I just had to see her."

"You didn't stay with her long."

"I couldn't bear to …... see her like that."

While he'd been speaking Jane had risen from her chair, her body movements deliberate and elegant despite her pale grey clothing and her minimal makeup. She had gone to Harry's house wearing only small silver earrings and no other jewellery. Jane had felt half naked as she'd left her house. "If you're sure there's nothing else ….." she says.

Harry appears to have been looking through her, something Jane remembers from old. She'd hated how he'd simply switch off and take himself away from her while still standing in her presence. When they'd been together he'd been such a remote man, and yet Ruth had managed to ignite a spark of something in Harry which had made him so much more _human_ and approachable. For her children's sake, Jane's last thought before she leaves Harry in the corridor of the hospital is that she hopes the new Harry - Ruth's Harry – has not gone to the grave with her.

"Anything you need, Harry, anything …... Phillip and I are only a phone call away."

Harry turns towards her and nods, but Jane knows that he is not really there. He is shutting himself off again, covering himself with layer upon layer of protection. She can't really blame him. She has no idea how she would react were Phillip to die suddenly. Well, that is an exaggeration and a lie. She does know. After a suitable time of mourning Phillip – perhaps three to six months – she'd go on a cruise with her best friend Helene, who has been happily single for the past three years. Together they would let their hair (and anything else, even their reputations) down, and they'd each find a new partner, so that life would again be worth living. With that thought still fresh Jane marches down the corridor and away from Harry. She has done her bit. She has no reason to be experiencing guilt because her partner is alive and well, and Harry's is not. As she walks she thinks of what Harry has lost. Ruth was a uniquely kind and giving woman, and Jane will miss her always.

* * *

"Harry, I've been waiting for your call. In ninety minutes a car will be waiting for you at your house. Pack yourself enough clothes for at least a week, maybe more. You'll be driven to another location …. in the country."

"I need more information than that." Harry's excitement at the probablility of Ruth being alive is being dampened by Towers' words and also by his attitude. "Can you tell me where?"

"No. Not on this line. You have to trust me, Harry. This has been done with your best interests in mind."

"What about the …... man who shot my wife?"

"I'll call you this evening, but on another line. Goodbye."

When he arrived home from the hospital Harry had showered and then changed into more comfortable clothes for the journey to who-knows-where– slacks, an open necked shirt, the fabric soft against his skin, and a leather jacket. He leans back against the leather upholstery in the rear seat of the government car. For the first time in almost 24 hours he sleeps without waking, his sleep deep and dreamless, only stirring when the car comes to a halt. He looks out his window to see a cottage – a rambling structure which it was clear had been added to over time. The original Tudor-style home sits sedate and dignified amid the more modern additions. He has no idea where he is. He looks into the driver's rear view mirror to see a pair of brown eyes watching him.

"We're here, Sir Harry. My instructions are to wait for you. You are to enter the house via the front door, and take the first door on your left. Inside that room you will find the man who …... shot your wife."

"What if he shoots me too?" Harry's mind is still addled from his long sleep, and he's not sure what Thomas is actually telling him. Is he to have a chat with this man? Is he expected to kill him?

"The man is unarmed."

"He is expecting me?"

"He is expecting someone, but he won't know it's you …. not until he sees you."

_Curiouser and curiouser._ Thomas is already at his door, opening it for Harry to pull himself together and step out of the relative safety of the car. He nods towards Thomas and then strides to the front door. All is quiet in the house as he opens the front door and then quietly closes it behind him. The interior is dark, the wood panelled walls decorated with photographs of seascapes. Harry hesitates before the door indicated by Thomas, taking a deep breath to calm himself. He knows who it is inside the room behind the door. He wants this man dead, but to kill him would only complicate his already complicated life. Plus, the very last thing he needs right now is to spend what remaining years he has in gaol.

In one swift move Harry opens the door and steps into a room which could be a library or an office. The first thing he sees is a large oak desk, beside which is a large globe of the world nestled in its oak frame. Feeling a presence in the room, he turns towards the window, where Ruth's killer stands, one eyebrow lifted, his face the impassive expression of a lifetime spy.

"Harry ….. you are the last person I expected to have visit me."

"This is not exactly a visit. I am not here for your benefit."

"Perhaps you are here to offer your …... forgiveness?"

Harry is still several yards away from Ruth's killer. He would like to stand close to him – nose to nose – but the man has the height advantage. He stands statue still and smiles. "I am not here for forgiveness either way. I am here to take one last look at the man who killed my wife in cold blood. I feel sorry for you."

"But Harry ….. now we are even …... on the same footing, you and I. We are both widowers, each with a son."

"Don't compare my son to your own. Sasha is a cold-blooded spy, just like you and me. My son has a heart …. and a conscience. Besides, you killed not only my wife but your own. That does not make us equal."

"You always were deluded, Harry. A conscience cannot keep you warm at night. Why are you here?"

"To let you go …... Ilya. I once felt guilty about what I had done to your wife all those years ago. Now …. I am glad. I am glad that you now know the truth about Elena. She used you, just as she used me. My wife would never have done that. She died with her dignity still intact. She was a heroine." Harry again sighs heavily. He wants to stuff his hands into his pockets, but Gavrik would interpret that as him relaxing. He cannot let his guard down around Ilya Gavrik. "I need you to know that I don't hate you. I know you want me to, but I don't. I know you killed Ruth to hurt me. Yes, I am hurt, but only because our marriage has been cut short. You are pathetic and washed up …... and now I'm leaving."

"Harry …..." Ilya's voice is quiet, laced with the slightest hint of menace. Harry turns to face him. "I will never kill you or have you killed; I need you to know that. I want you to suffer being alive while the person you love most in the world has gone. It is the very worst form of torture. I want you to feel as I feel."

"I will never feel as you feel, Ilya. We are very different people."

Harry quickly turns and strides to the door. He leaves the room, closing the door behind him without glancing back at the man who shot Ruth. In the hallway outside the door Vic Griffiths, an operative from Six who has spent much of his career in Moscow, stands armed with an automatic weapon. He nods as Harry walks past him and through the front door. In the driveway Thomas opens the back door of the car for Harry, but it is not until they are both safely inside with the doors closed that either of them speak.

"Was the visit worth it, Sir Harry?"

"I believe it was. Now, Thomas, please take me to my wife."

Thomas catches Harry's eye in the rear view mirror and smiles.

* * *

_**A/N: I have deliberately kept the details of why/how/when/where of Ruth being shot out of this story. As a reader, you can fill in these details any way you wish.**_


	2. Chapter 2

When next the car rolls to a halt it is dark, and the building outside his window has a sign on the wall declaring it to be _The Spinnaker Arms_, above which is an oversized image of a sailing boat, its bright blue spinnaker billowing.

"Ms Evershed is _here_?" Harry asks, his voice barely hiding his skepticism.

Thomas turns in his seat so that he half faces Harry. "This small establishment is owned by a former MI5 agent, and is where we are to spend the night. I had to take a winding route to get here, on account of …..." He leaves the sentence hanging, and Harry knows that Thomas has been trained in counter surveillance, so that on their afternoon jaunt to this hotel he has put his training to good use. "First thing tomorrow we will continue our journey to …..." Again his unfinished sentence tells Harry so much. He trusts Thomas. He chose him himself from five applicants, all qualified, all trained in counter surveillance, and all having passed a stringent set of security measures.

Despite having spent most of his day sitting – firstly at home, and then at the hospital, and now in the car – Harry is bone tired. He is weary from the stress of not knowing what is going on. He does not enjoy handing over the reins to others, especially when one of the others is William Towers. He would rather be the one calling the shots.

Harry and Thomas eat their evening meal in their rooms, and Harry is preparing for bed when his phone rings. The message on his phone's screen tells him it is a withheld number.

"Harry," Towers' voice purrs through the phone's speaker, "have you had a fruitful day?"

"I think so, unless you expected me to kill Ilya Gavrik with my bare hands. I chose to walk away from him. To kill him would have been too easy."

"You're too bloody noble, Harry. Even in retirement you are living according to some old-fashioned code or other -"

"It is my old-fashioned code which has got me this far. Killing people is easy. It's the not killing them which is hard. What will happen to him?"

"The Russian?"

"Yes. Will he be gaoled?"

"Definitely, but I have to get the assurance of Moscow before I send him back. It will cost us too much to keep him here. He's not worth that. We need him and Sasha back in Moscow ASAP."

"And …... my wife?"

"That is the reason I have rung you."

Harry suddenly panics. "She's alright, though, isn't she? She's still ….."

"She's fine. I can't tell you where she is. Even on this line I have to exercise extreme caution. She is very important to us all …. not just you, Harry."

"I need to stay with her."

"Of course. We have allowed for that. You will see what I mean when you get there. And don't worry about Gavrik and son. We have both of them covered."

"What about other FSB agents?"

"All under surveillance. You need to sleep, Harry. You have a big day tomorrow." And with that the Home Secretary hangs up.

Harry lies under a single sheet, his eyes closed, trying to empty his mind. All he can think about is Ruth. Towers hadn't even let him ask after her condition. For all he knows she could be in a coma, and he is being transported to her to see her one last time before she dies. He conjures images of her during the time they have been living together, and then again on their four-day honeymoon, and the delightful months since. He imagines her being healthy and vibrant and happy, and he just hopes that his wishes for her rapid recovery will be granted.

* * *

Thomas and Harry exchange only a few brief sentences before they leave the hotel and travel northwards. They travel in comfortable silence, Thomas concentrating on his driving while Harry stares out the window as the countryside flies by. Thomas takes a direct route into Norfolk, and then bypasses Norwich and again heads north off the A47. As they get closer to their destination Harry feels an anxiety fluttering deep inside his stomach. Despite his questioning anyone who will listen, no-one has been able to reassure him about the state of Ruth's health.

"She's still with us, Harry," Towers had told him. "That has to be a good start, surely."

"Last report was positive," Thomas had told him soon after breakfast that morning. "She was operated on yesterday morning, and the signs are good."

Harry found neither report terribly reassuring. As Thomas turns the car off the road and onto a country lane towards the coast, Harry wonders what they are keeping from him.

* * *

"This is to be your home during your wife's recovery, Sir Harry," Thomas says, as soon as he has turned off the ignition of the car, and they are sitting in silence, staring at the large house in front of them.

"Who owns this place?"

"I believe it is owned by Sir Terence Moody -"

"A.k.a Terry Moody, Section Head of Section B, who after retirement made a fortune from his race horses."

"His biggest claim to fame was during the 1970's when he kept the Russians at bay."

"But then he married Rada Pavlenko -"

"Once she defected, yes."

"Are they still together?"

"I believe so, sir. They had four children, and it's the younger of the two sons who now runs this place. The older son, Stewart, is in charge of the horse racing arm of the family business from Dubai, while Felix Moody and his wife, Kim run this establishment. Sir Terence and Lady Rada spend most of the year in France, only travelling back here once or twice a year. He …. offered his house to you and Ms Evershed because he has a fully functioning hospital wing, complete with fully vetted nursing and paramedical staff."

"She was operated on _here_?"

"No. She was air lifted from London to Norwich,where she spent the first 30 hours of her recovery. There is an air field just behind that grove of trees. She should be back here later today, all things going according to plan."

Not for the first time, Harry wonders how Thomas knows so much about Ruth's wellbeing when he himself knows nothing at all. He puts that very question to his driver.

"I receive regular updates on my phone, Sir Harry," Thomas says, turning in his seat to look at Harry. "It was thought best to do it that way so as not to worry you."

"Not knowing anything at all is far more worrying, believe me."

"The last update I received was at eight o'clock this morning, just before we left _The Spinnaker_. The operation on Ms Evershed went well, and she is expected to recover fully from her injury. All bullet fragments were successfully removed, and the internal bleeding staunched."

Harry nods, only slightly relieved. He won't be free to relax until he sees her.

* * *

Harry has spent the day wandering around the vast grounds, mostly worrying about Ruth. He often finds himself turning his wedding ring around and around on his finger as he thinks about her. He has only just finished eating his dinner alone in the vast dining room when he hears the thrumming of helicopter blades above the house. He stands quickly and turns to see Felix Moody beckoning him from the doorway.

"I didn't wish to disturb your meal, Sir Harry -"

"Please …. just Harry. I left the knighthood back in London. I keep it in a box under my bed."

"The helicopter bearing your wife is about to land. I thought you might like to greet your wife in her room."

"And how is she?" Harry has reached the doorway and stands in the shadow of Felix Moody's body. He would have to be at least six feet five, and sturdy to go with it. Harry makes a mental note to not piss him off.

"Still recovering. My wife accompanied her from Norwich. Kim says she is still groggy and tired, but well."

"Good. Show me to her room." Felix strides across the vast hallway to the stairs, and Harry has to almost run to keep up. "I'd like to stay with her ….. in her room."

"That has been taken care of, Harry. There's a single bed in her room, and it can be pushed close to her hospital bed for during the night, should she ….. wake and need you."

"Thank you."

As they stride down the corridor towards the medical wing Felix points down a short corridor as they are about to pass it. "You have a room and an ensuite down the end of that corridor. You will need somewhere to sleep, and change your clothes between spending time with your wife. I'll have one of the house staff put your things in there for you."

Harry is impressed. He just hopes he doesn't get hit with a bill when he leaves.

"The Home Office is paying for everything, Harry. The Home Secretary is ….. contrite about his allowing your wife to accompany the Russian contingent on the day she was shot. Were I you, I'd milk it for as long as you can. Mrs Pearce will get the very best of care while here, but it won't come cheaply."

At last they are stopped outside the door to Ruth's hospital room. "I think you can call her Ruth, Felix. She is not fond of being called Mrs anything. It's either Ms Evershed or Ruth, and I have to respect that."

Felix laughs a low growling laugh as he opens the door to a very white and clean room, where Ruth's hospital bed is already set up and waiting for her, while the bed Harry will sleep in is pushed against the wall. "I know what you mean. My wife only answers to Kim." Felix turns to face Harry. "I'll make myself scarce. You'll not want me here when you greet her."

"She's conscious?"

"Last I heard, yes." Felix walks back to the door to leave before he again turns to face Harry. "Enjoy your stay. You're welcome here for as long as you need. I know the ….. background story, and why it is you need to hide away for a while. And there's a …... small village just up the coast where there are three cottages currently for sale …... if this area takes your fancy. You could do worse." And then he is gone.

* * *

Harry only has a fifteen minute wait before he hears movement in the corridor, but it feels to him like the longest fifteen minutes of his life. A male attendant opens the door, while another male attendant and a female nurse help push a wheelchair through the doorway. Ruth is indeed awake, but to Harry she appears tired and drained, and her skin is worryingly pale. He steps forward to greet her, and is happy to see her smile up at him.

"Harry ….." is all she says before she is helped out of the wheelchair and into bed. Harry stands by, feeling like a fifth wheel. He is not used to standing by and watching, and his discomfort is clear in his body language.

Eventually all but the nurse leaves. She checks the cannula in Ruth's arm, and checks the fluid dripping into the tube. "She'll needs fluids for the next 24 hours at least, and she's having morphine 4 hourly. I'll leave you alone with her for a moment, but there is a doctor on site who'll want to speak with you."

When she has left the room Harry steps close to the bed and leans across to kiss Ruth on her forehead. "Lips please," she says, her words a little slurred, her eyelids heavy.

Harry leans in again and places a soft kiss on her lips. "Better?" he asks, and she smiles a tired smile, her eyes almost closed.

"S'the drugs," she says, closing her eyes briefly, and then opening them. "Can't feel a thing."

Harry still leans close to her, placing himself in her line of sight. "Get some sleep, sweetheart," he says, "I'm off to change my clothes ….. and then I'll be back, and I'm not leaving your side ever again."

He knows he has just made a promise that in all likelihood he'll not be able to keep, but he needs to reassure her, even if in the days to come this brief conversation will be forgotten. Harry stays close until Ruth's eyes close. His eyes glance over her. Bandages cover her chest and over her left shoulder, and her left arm is wrapped tightly against her body in a sling.

"Mr Pearce?"

Harry turns towards the doorway to see a tall Asian man of around 45, smartly dressed and with a stethoscope draped around his neck. The man indicates with a slight movement of his head that Harry should follow him out of the room. He hesitates, not wanting to leave Ruth's bedside quite yet.

"She'll sleep for at least another four hours," the man says. "We have to talk."

* * *

Forty five minutes later Harry stands under the shower in the en suite bathroom off his own bedroom. As the water pours over his skin, soothing away his worry, stress, and yes, his grief, he finds that he's crying. He doesn't even attempt to stop the flow of tears. He knows he needs to let go, and some of what he's letting go is the pain he'd felt when he'd believed Ruth had died, and then there has been the stress of not knowing how badly injured she'd been. She's living, breathing, and in a few weeks he'll be free to take her home, wherever home is for them. Ruth's doctor had told him that she would need complete bed rest for at least three to four days, and after that she would need intensive physiotherapy, including time spent in the swimming pool in the basement. Harry could observe from a distance, or he could be hands on. He had assured Paul Durrani, Ruth's doctor, that he intends being very hands on. The weeks ahead may be difficult and frustrating, but he is prepared to do whatever it takes for Ruth to fully recover from her injury.

As Harry sees it they have been given another chance at a life together, and this time he intends being by her side always. When he promised Ruth he'd never again let her out of his sight he'd meant it.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: Thanks you to followers of this fic, and especially to reviewers. This was meant to be a one shot, but it got away from me. Only one more chapter after this.**_

* * *

3½ weeks later:

Harry is stretched out on top of the duvet. He is fully clothed in slacks and a thick jumper, shoes still on his feet. Ruth is rested after the best night's sleep she's had since she'd been taken off the morphine. She smiles at the sight of him. Even in deep sleep he appears exhausted. He has been to every one of her physiotherapy sessions, and when she was ready to enter the pool downstairs, Harry got into the water beside her and joined her in every exercise she'd been given to do. She could not fault him in any way. To her mind it was as though he has been attempting to make up for not being by her side when she'd been shot in the lower left shoulder by a temporarily disturbed Ilya Gavrik, only moments after he'd strangled his wife. In retrospect she should not have insisted she accompany the Russian contingent to their meeting with several members of Section D. She had gone because as she saw it, an unbiased perspective was required. Towers had warned her that the senior Gavrik had something up his sleeve, and she had ignored his warnings. Had it not been for Sasha Gavrik removing his own jacket and shirt, and pressing his shirt into her wound ... well, it doesn't bear thinking about. She slides out of their bed, careful to not place any weight on her left arm, and heads to the en suite for a shower.

Ruth stands under the stream of water, letting it flow over her, enjoying its warmth. The scar from her operation has healed well, and she only has scheduled three more sessions with the physiotherapist, with only one of those being in the pool. Apart from medical staff, the house staff, and even Felix and Kim Moody, have left them alone, and she and Harry have been thankful for that. She'll be glad when they are free to go home, although she's no longer sure where home is. What is she thinking ….. home is wherever Harry is. Ever since she'd returned from Cyprus, and once she'd sorted in her head the chain of responsibility for George's death …... ever since then Harry has been her home. It's just that it had taken her a very long time for her to acknowledge this.

By the time she finishes her shower and heads back into the bedroom, Harry is stirring. Ruth sits on the edge of the bed and watches while he stretches his body, arches his back, and then opens his eyes. It is only when his eyes are focused on her that she speaks.

"Harry ..."

"Mmm?"

"I think we need to decide where we're going to live."

"Why is that?" His eyes are trained on her with an intensity which is disconcerting. In an unconscious act of self protection Ruth draws her dressing gown together at the neckline. Harry notices and smiles.

"We can't go back to London to live. I'm meant to be dead."

"Mmm. You're definitely not dead, Ruth. Just the opposite, in fact."

"Mine is a serious question."

"Mmm …... let me think about it. In the meantime, come here."

* * *

8 weeks later – Norfolk:

He hadn't wanted to leave her in the cottage on her own, but it couldn't be helped. They'd agreed that he should drive to London alone for his appointment with the Home Secretary at 9 am. He'd then visit his daughter, and then drive straight back to their rented cottage on the coast. Hopefully by the time he arrives home Ruth would still be pottering around inside the house.

Ruth doesn't mind being alone. It is he who panics whenever she is out of his sight, and Ruth understands why that is. Harry knows that he needs to give her some leeway fairly soon, or she'll rebel against his need to always be with her. It's just that he feels the need to prove to himself that he is worthy of being her husband and protector. He'd shared this with her, and she'd stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. "You've always been worthy of me, Harry. I've often felt unworthy of you," to which he'd shaken his head in disbelief.

Harry drives his car down the narrow driveway to the back of the cottage. There is no sign of Ruth anywhere. He heads inside. She is not in the kitchen or the living room or the utilities room. He calls her name while he searches for her upstairs. She is not in any of the rooms. She could have walked into the village, but she'd assured him she wouldn't leave the cottage until he arrived home. He is standing at the window of the second bedroom, looking out into the field which lies directly behind the cottage, when he sees something in the long grass …... something coloured, fluttering in the breeze. _Ruth_! She has a skirt that exact same colour.

Harry runs down the stairs, taking them two at a time. By the time he reaches the back door he can feel his heart beating at the back of his throat. _Please let her be alright_. He runs across the back yard and through the gate in the fence. By the time he is charging up the hill behind the cottage he is short of breath, and his legs ache. When he reaches her he throws himself onto the grass beside her. She is lying on her back in the long grass, wildflowers nodding all around her, her outstretched arms forming the shape of a crucifix. Her eyes are closed, and her face is relaxed in the most peaceful smile. When she hears his heavy breathing from beside her she opens her eyes and slowly turns her head his way. "Harry," she says. "You're home. I've been waiting ages."

Harry cannot speak. He is simply relieved. He rolls towards her and wraps an arm around her waist. She reaches across and kisses his mouth. "I've missed you," she says before she again lies on her back, her face turned upwards.

"What are you doing out here? I thought you were ….."

"I'm fine, Harry. I'm …... communing with the earth. Didn't you do this when you were a child? I did. I was sure I could feel the earth's heart beating beneath my back."

Harry sighs heavily before he smiles at her. His wonderful, beautiful Ruth. "What you heard was the thrum of traffic from the motorway," he says.

"Oh, Harry. Don't you believe in Gaia, the Greek Goddess of the earth? Didn't you ever lie on the ground when you were a child? Didn't you listen to it breathing all around you?"

"I was a child for only around a week or two, so no …. I can't remember ever doing that."

"Try it. Just lie still for a moment and feel the earth beneath you. If you listen carefully you can hear it sighing."

Harry does as she suggests, rolling onto his back, arms stretched beside him, listening. "All I can hear is the birds chirping," he says after a while.

"That's a start. You have to let go of the noise inside your head."

He turns towards her and lifts himself on to one elbow, leaning over her. His glorious, engaging, unique wife ….. how would he have continued living had she died when Ilya Gavrik had shot her? She looks inviting – more inviting than usual. He leans in and kisses her, and she responds with gusto, wrapping her arms around his waist, pulling him closer. He pulls out of the kiss to get his breath.

"What say we …..?" he says as his eyes roam over her body.

"You want to do it _here_?"

"Why not? It'll be a first for us. No-one can see us."

"Aren't you tired from your drive, from being in London?"

"Not now. I'm ….. revived ….. alive. I'd like to make love to you …... here ... now."

"Shouldn't we go inside? What if someone should see us? I'm sure there are laws against fornicating in a public place."

"We won't be ….. fornicating ….. and this is private land. The owner lives -"

"- far away."

"So you see …...?" Harry again lifts his eyebrows in a question. He will not proceed until Ruth is comfortable. He waits, watching her as her mind travels through all the possibilities should they go ahead and make love in the long grass.

Ruth pats the ground beside her. "The earth is dry," she says.

"It hasn't rained for weeks."

Harry acknowledges to himself that he is tired, but he's not so tired that he can't take advantage of the time and the place. This opportunity may not present itself again. He leans across her, resting his weight on his hands, waiting for her to respond, but she is looking off to her left. "We can't," Ruth whispers hoarsely. "Someone's coming."

Harry leans close to her, his lips next to her ear. "That will add to the thrill, Ruth. Just imagine -"

She begins shaking her head. "Not when the witnesses are children."

Harry lifts his head and turns to look in the same direction as Ruth. Walking haphazardly along the grassy verge at the bottom of the bank, just this side of their back fence are two children in the bottle green uniform of the local school – a boy of about 6 and a girl of perhaps 10. It is clear they are brother and sister. They have not lifted their heads to see the couple hiding in the long grass on the top of the rise. The small boy begins spinning around, but still manages to keep up with his sister. In less than a minute they are further along and out of sight. Harry lets out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"In this instance our timing was perfect, Harry," Ruth says, smiling up at him. Harry rolls away from her, the moment over. "How about we go inside and I make us a pot of tea."

Harry's reply is to roll onto his back and groan.

* * *

Harry opts to give the pot of tea a miss. He heads upstairs to have a lie down. He is noticing more and more how retirement can be more tiring than working full time. Alternatively, as he ages he may be slowing down. He is almost asleep when he feels the mattress dip a little as Ruth joins him. He looks across at her to see she is lying on top of the duvet, spreading a woollen blanket over her.

"We're a couple of geriatrics, Ruth," he murmurs.

"Speak for yourself. We've both been up since before 4.30. That makes the day far too long for me."

"There was a time not so long ago when we each began our day at 5, and often didn't leave work until 10."

"I no longer wish to do that, Harry."

"Me neither," he says before he again closes his eyes.

* * *

When Harry wakes it is almost six o'clock and he is in bed alone. He lies on his back for a moment, breathing deeply. Delicious smells are wafting up the stairs from the kitchen, so he rolls out of bed and heads to the shower.

Ruth is humming to herself as she makes the sauce for the chicken stir fry. Since she has been living in this cottage with Harry, and with no job to go to each day, she is discovering how much she enjoys simple creative activities like cooking. As much as she loves sharing the kitchen and the cooking with him, she prefers to create a meal in her own way. She's all for throwing in handfuls of this and that, trusting that the finished dish will be edible, even enjoyable, and mostly she is successful. Harry, on the other hand, insists on weighing and measuring everything. "Cooking is a science, Ruth."

"And here was I thinking it's an art form."

"Perhaps it's a craft," Harry had countered. "You'd expect a carpenter to measure the wood before he glues it together ….. wouldn't you?"

Rather than ignoring him altogether, Ruth had distracted Harry with a kiss, but he would not be put off. When he is chief cook they measure, but when Ruth is in charge, she insists that estimation will suffice.

She feels a presence in the room, and then Harry's arms slide around her waist, and she feels his lips warm on her neck. "You smell nice," she says, turning towards him and away from the cooker.

"So do you …... but the dinner smells better."

"You can pour the wine. It's almost ready."

They are sitting at the large table in the kitchen, their chicken stir fry in bowls in front of them, the rice in a larger bowl between them. Harry has poured them each a generous glass of chablis, and they have drunk to another day of married life.

"We have to talk, Harry."

Harry takes a deep breath. He has been expecting this.


	4. Chapter 4

_Harry has poured them each a generous glass of chablis, and they have drunk to another day of married life._

"_We have to talk, Harry."_

_Harry takes a deep breath. He has been expecting this. _

Harry nods, taking his time to answer Ruth. "I know …... and I assume you're not talking about my appointment with Towers."

"No. I'm not. Not yet, anyway."

They both wait as they each take another mouthful of their chicken. It is clear they are nervous, but perhaps for different reasons.

"Is this …...?" Harry begins, wanting this `talk' to be over and done with. To her credit, Ruth does not nag. She only ever insists they talk when there is something very important which affects them both.

"It's to do with you never again leaving my side, Harry. You ….. have to …... give me back my freedom."

Harry nods, releasing his breath in a sigh. He is sure he understands what she means. She is not asking for a divorce; she is asking for breathing space. He then lifts his eyes to Ruth's. Her expression is kind but serious. He knows exactly what she means. He has had it coming …... ever since Ruth was shot and he'd believed her to be dead.

"You have to let me off the leash," she says simply. "I can't ….. continue to be responsible for your fears for my safety."

"I know," he says, sitting back in his chair and watching her. "I'm sorry."

"I don't require an apology, Harry. I know why it is you've been worried for my safety."

"It's more than just your safety which worries me …. it's your life. I couldn't bear to lose you again."

"Nor I you, but I have to let you live your life, and you have to let me live mine. Just because we were apart on the day Ilya Gavrik shot me doesn't mean that you could have saved me had you been there."

"Perhaps not, but I would have killed the bastard on the spot."

"And perhaps that's what he'd want you to have done, Harry. I suspect that his shooting me was a form of suicide."

Harry takes another sip of his wine before he speaks. Ruth certainly has a point, but to a man like Ilya, a bullet to his own brain would be easier, so why shoot someone else? "When I visited him ….. Ilya ….. he was hoping for my forgiveness."

"He committed a crime of passion when he killed his wife, and then another crime of passion in attempting to kill me."

"Meaning?"

"Shooting me was the act of a man caught up in his own deep grief. Call it an eye for an eye, but he wanted you to suffer, Harry, and the quickest way to hurt you was to kill me. When you visited him the day after I was shot ….. he no doubt expected you to kill him. I'm almost sure he _wanted_ you to kill him."

"So that I could take his place." Ruth looks across the table at him, her forehead wrinkled in a frown. "Were I to have killed him – for taking your life – then I'd be the one left alive, grieving your death while rotting away in gaol."

"I suspect that's what he wanted all along. I'm just relieved you didn't go to that extreme."

"At the time I visited him I knew you to be alive. I had nothing to gain by killing him."

"I love you," Ruth says quietly, not even looking at him.

"I know you do. And I love you. I'll ….. do my best, Ruth. You may have to remind me if and when I …..crowd you."

"You never crowd me, but I can feel when you're afraid for me. I need you to love me, Harry …. not be afraid for me. When you do that it …... limits me. And with Ilya under lock and key ... I should be safe."

"You'll not be completely safe until he is back in Russia, along with his posse of FSB agents."

"No strategy is fail-safe. I just have to lay low for a while." Seeing the doubt in Harry's eyes, she keeps going. "You forget that I've done it before ... died, and kept a low profile."

"That was different."

"Not so very much. I know that were Ilya to suspect I'm alive he'd find a way to send someone after me. I do understand his need to have you suffer. I respect your fears, Harry. I just need you to trust that I know how to keep myself safe."

Harry nods, and scoops a spoonful of rice from the larger bowl and places it in his own bowl, mixing it with the sauce in the bottom of his bowl. "This is delicious, Ruth."

"Thank you." She smiles across the table at him, her earlier tension having eased. "I measured none of the ingredients. It was made with love and faith …... love for you, and faith that by the time I put it all together it would …... taste good."

Harry looks up to find Ruth watching him as he scoops the rice into his mouth. "Well, your love always hits the spot, and this time your faith has also."

"What do you mean `this time'? The food I cook is always -"

"It's always delicious, Ruth."

Rather than enter the territory of whose cooking method is best, and so risk having an argument over nothing at all, they continue eating in silence. When they are finished Harry carries their empty bowls to the sink and rinses them under the tap. When he again sits down he notices that Ruth has topped up their wine.

"Do you need to tell me about your meeting with Towers?" Ruth asks, sipping her wine while watching Harry over the rim of her glass.

Picking up his own glass of wine he nods. "I met him at his home ... his London apartment, since I'm no longer welcome at Whitehall. We sat in the back garden in his summer house."

"Was it nice?"

"His summer house?"

"His apartment."

"I barely noticed it. You know what he's like ... he'll only stop talking when he's dead. I barely had time to take in my surroundings."

"Did I get a mention?"

"Of course. The meeting was about you and your future, Ruth. I'm just sad it was deemed …. unsafe for you to visit London at this time. There will come a time when we can return to London as a couple, with you alive and well, but it will not be until …..."

"The Russians are all packed off back to Russia, or at the very least, accounted for."

"Yes," Harry replies, turning his glass around and around, his only concession to his nervousness about conveying this news to Ruth. "Were anyone connected with the Russian secret service to recognise you ….. I'd hate to think what could happen. Towers believes it will be at least a year before the danger will be over and we can safely move around London. In the meantime …..."

"I have to pretend to be dead." Ruth wrinkles her nose in distaste, then rises from her chair, her wine glass in one hand, and reaches out her hand to Harry. "It's more comfortable in the living room," she adds.

They settle on the sofa together, Harry's arm across the back of the sofa, while Ruth nestles against him. He grabs the remote control and turns on the TV, which is permanently tuned to BBC News. He mutes the sound, and then returns the remote control to the coffee table.

"Nothing happened today, Harry. I've already checked."

"I guess it's a habit I'm finding difficult to break," he says quietly.

"There are worse habits you could have. At least you don't smoke."

"Mmmm," he replies. "I tried it when I was at university. It was Jane who convinced me to give it up."

"How?"

"She said something like: `Harry, if you're still smoking by this time next week, you can find yourself another girlfriend'. And she meant it, too."

"Wise woman."

"She was back then."

They sit close together, both watching the TV, but not really taking it in, until Ruth breaks the silence.

"Did Towers mention my job at all?"

Harry reaches down and kisses her cheek, a smile on his face. "You lasted ten minutes, Ruth. That shows great restraint."

"Bastard," she says, playfully slapping his thigh. Harry responds by sliding both his arms around her and kissing the soft skin of her neck. They then disengage, with Harry's arm again along the back of the sofa, while Ruth sits a little apart from him, making it easier for them to have eye contact.

"Towers has a suggestion …... one which will allow you to work from home. In fact, it will be safer for you to be working from home. Do you know Rizwan Khan?"

"He's Tariq's replacement. He began in Section D a month before I was shot. He's …..."

"Very good, apparently."

"He's better than very good. He's brilliant. He's the only one on the Grid with passable skills with the Russian language. His uncle's wife is Russian. While my Russian is sketchy at best, he has conversational Russian, and a good ear when hearing the language spoken."

"So …... Towers thinks that between Rizwan and you …..."

Suddenly Ruth sits up straight, turning to face Harry. "He wants Riz and me to listen to the Russians …. to intercept their communications?"

Harry nods, carefully watching her face.

"That's …... that's wonderful. That's the kind of work I love, Harry."

"I know. But that's not all. Rizwan will be given your old position at the Home Office -"

"As Towers' security advisor?"

"Yes. Just until you are safe to show your face again. You are to act as Rizwan's ..."

"Silent partner?"

"Yes, I suppose that's a good term for it, except you'll not exactly be silent. In a way, you will be directing Rizwan, but he will be the one reporting directly to Towers."

"Did you say yes on my behalf?"

"I wouldn't dare, Ruth. I had to ask you first. Rizwan is already setting up firewalls, and I emphasised to Towers that your involvement must be totally undetectable."

Ruth decides to ignore Harry's last statement. "Riz already has more firewalls installed than the Bank Of England," she says in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"He's on call to prepare a laptop for your use. You just have to say the word, Ruth."

"The word will always be yes."

Harry nods and smiles. "That's good. I'm glad."

"Are you really?"

"Of course. I'm proud of you."

"And you? What will you do while I'm slaving over a hot laptop?"

"My job is to look after you." When Ruth frowns, he adds, "from a distance, of course."

"Of course. So long as you're not too far away."

"I'll be in the kitchen ... where I belong."

* * *

By 10 o'clock they are in bed. They are lying a little way apart, but holding hands under the duvet.

"Harry …."

"Mmmm?"

"What will we do about somewhere to live? We can't go back to London ….. not yet."

"Do you want to, Ruth?"

"Not especially. I'm …... getting used to living in the country and I rather like it. The air is so much cleaner. Will we ever be able to buy a house out here?"

"When your status is re-established, yes."

"But ….. we could buy something now …. in your name."

"I'd prefer to wait until you're officially alive again. I'd like any house we own to be in joint names."

"Good. That's good." Ruth waits for some time before she again speaks, and by the way she is gripping his hand Harry can feel her mind working, so he waits. "Have you told anyone that I'm alive …... anyone in your family, that is?"

Harry had been waiting some time for this question. He is surprised Ruth has taken this long to ask it. "Catherine and Graham know. I have asked them to not mention anything to their partners until ….. further notice."

"Good. What about Jane and Phillip?"

"What about them?"

"Do they know I'm alive?"

"No. I don't trust Jane with such sensitive information. She's never been good at keeping secrets."

"Alright."

"Alright? Is that all? I expected an objection."

"I tend to agree with you about Jane. The knowledge that I'm alive, and what led up to it would make ideal dinner party gossip. She wouldn't be able to help herself." Harry waits while Ruth's mind ticks over some more. "When she discovers I've been alive all along she'll not be pleased. She hates being left out of the loop."

"Don't I know it? She'll complain for far too long, and then she'll just get over it."

"But it's best she not be informed ... until it is deemed I'm no longer in danger."

"That's what I thought. It might be as long as two years before your status is reinstated, and for your safety, the fewer people who know you're alive the better."

"You're protecting me again, Harry."

"I know. I hope you don't object."

"Not this time, no."

Harry waits for the next question, but none follows and he feels her fingers relaxing in his grasp. "Is there anything else you need to know?" he asks.

"Not right now, thanks."

"And you'll keep me informed about any worries and concerns you may have?"

"I will, yes."

"That's good. Goodnight, Ruth. I love you."

"Me too."

_Fin_

* * *

_**A/N: And this is where I will leave both this fic and my version of Jane Townsend. For a character who never appeared in Spooks, I feel I have given her enough time and opportunity to have her say.**_

_**Thank you to all who have read this, and especially to those who have left reviews. Your views and questions, comments are all appreciated. **_


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